


Thaw

by scintilla_misha



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Angst, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-31
Updated: 2014-08-31
Packaged: 2018-02-15 12:31:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2229099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scintilla_misha/pseuds/scintilla_misha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>That’s the fun of the game. No one knows who is playing who. [A character study of Alayne Stone; no plot, entirely internal dialogue.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thaw

She hated the game. 

The she that lives inside of me, the little girl. The girl everyone called beautiful, the one with hair like Autumn leaves, like the richest apples. The girl that died silently, without even a scream. 

She wanted to die, didn’t she? She wished for it. In death, she would be reunited with the ones she lost, the ones I never knew. 

But, sometimes, I still feel her heartbeat, deep inside, where my own heart should be. My heart: the heart of a bastard, as cold and calculating as my father’s. Her heart: like rain against a window. 

She whispers that someone will ask questions eventually. Cersei, mostly. _Who knew Petyr Baelish had a bastard?_ But I know the truth -- Cersei is too mad, too singular. Who cares about a little man called Littlefinger? People often miss a rat when it crawls across their own feet.

But who is the rat? Is it Petyr or is it me?

The game we play is simple. Neither of us know who is playing who. 

Perhaps it is Petyr -- a man who died years ago, only to be replaced by Littlefinger. Same face, same history, but different eyes. Eyes that never smiled. 

Or perhaps it _is_ me. Alayne. 

Born from death and rubble, stone and storm.

I carved myself anew, from a girl who was barely anything at all.

Her heart flutters inside of me. Sometimes, I can’t remember who I think I am. With how easily she died, would it be easy for me to die too? Could I be replaced by another, a girl who could slip away, faceless and plain? 

I could sail away, across the Narrow Sea and start a new life, scented with spice and secrets and shame. No one need ever know the identities I wore and shed like soiled gowns. I could find Ar -

Ar...?

The name escapes me, the heartbeat inside of me fluttering to a stop. 

She’s dead, I remind myself. She’s dead. She’s been dead for a long time. Both of them. Both the girls. Maybe I was both of them. Maybe I was crazy.

Father once said that chaos is a ladder and he was right. 

You use it to ascend. 

I see the truth it in now. The power in it. Sometimes I wondered why he even bothers to play the game -- it is too easy, to bend people, to snap them like twigs. But then, I see the truth: through chaos he has won and no one even knows it.

I used to think that she and I were one in the same, masks I slipped on and off. But that’s not true, is it? They called her beautiful, a girl with hair like fire. But she was as empty as a vase, ready to be filled. She died so I could live. No one calls me beautiful. I am the plain bastard, baudy and sharp as a whip. They called her stupid. No one would dare call me stupid. She was warmth and I am cold. 

She _is_ dead sometimes. I am so sure. I stretch my memories. I try to recall the names. 

Ar..... 

Ro.... 

Br.... but they are nothing. Just whispers. A fluttering heartbeat. My heartbeat is my own sometimes, and then it is another’s. She is dead. Fully and truly. Except for the heartbeat. 

But then, it is like a storm, a rushing of whispers and voices. 

The whispers that tell me I was born from another man, unlike him in every way. The names. The names _I_ struggle to recall appear over and over inside my own head until I think I will go mad with them. They are her’s. Her’s to carry. And I shed them, didn’t I? I left them behind with _her._ She’s dead, I tell myself, _dead, dead, dead_ and I have been born from stone. 

He is my father, but I hear what others say. 

The bastard from no one, no where.

Born only from stone.

I love the snow and cold. I love the way is seeps into me and freezes everything. Freezes time. I love when the world feels as cold and lonesome as me. He does too. He celebrates it. 

He tells me to never show fear, not like she did. Tears and cries and empty gratitude. She could be sly, he said, but not enough. I can be better. I can lie. I can deceive. I can create chaos. I can be what she never was.

I will survive where she died. 

I will survive in this body. Raven-haired and plain.

Born from stone and storm.

This body is not my own, but it is all I have. I control it now. She can only beat, like a drum inside of me, fluttering like a feather in the wind. Weak, so weak. 

Sometimes, I dream though. The dreams are terrible. There is blood on a white cloak, the blonde curls of a man that I, Alayne, have never met. There are swords. There is fire, the sweat and blood covered brow of a man who I can barely stand to look at. These dreams. These dreams tell me something that no lie can cover up: that she was never weak, she was never stupid. No matter how many times I try, the one person I cannot deceive is myself. 

This is my weakness. It is the one, Father says, that will destroy me. If I let it. 

I bury her. I bury her alive. The feather in the snow. She would never burn. I freeze her, like the cold freezes water. To survive she must be frozen. Those tears, those dreams, those whispers. I cannot hear them. I want to be able to tell her, but I can’t. _You must be quiet._ She doesn’t understand. 

She hates the game. 

I feel her still. She is a stone I carry in my heart, in my gut, in my very limbs. I feel her voice, inside of my own, and he does too. He hears it and he hates it. 

Who plays who? That’s the game. 

Am I deceiving myself to save him or to save my own skin? 

Or is it to save hers? 

Winter is coming, but after Winter, there is always a Spring. 

Because the one thing I know, the one thing I am sure of is that what is frozen can thaw. 

I am born of stone. I do not budge. I can deceive and I can create chaos. 

I see it when I look into his cold eyes, the eyes that never smile. _Petyr_ , they call him, but he is dead too, isn’t he? Does he even feel the flutter of that lost boy anymore? What will Petyr think when the Spring comes? When Littlefinger must retreat and pay for his crimes? 

Littlefinger started this game, so surely he knows. The fun of the game is that no one ever knows who is playing who. 

But I know the truth. 

Someday, Sansa _will_ thaw and he will truly see the meaning of chaos. 

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! I'm back! Thank you for reading & I'd love to hear your thoughts in the comments. 
> 
> xo ellipsis


End file.
